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I just don’t know how the hell to get there. How to reach that point.
“I know Hale has something for her, and I’m not exactly sure what that is, but honestly, I’m jealous,” Zaid continues. His hands flex on the steering wheel, and he keeps his gaze on the road. “I’m jealous because I want to be the one to protect her. I want to be the one she goes to.”
My fingers tap out a sharp rhythm on my thigh as I consider what he just said. Even though I know that shit’s gone down between Grace and each one of us, even Ciro, it doesn’t make me want her any less.
But who gets to have her? Ultimately, which one of us will she choose? Or will she never be able to let go of her distrust enough to truly care for any of us?
I’ve thought about the same thing my brother has… Hale has some unspoken claim on her that goes deeper than lust, something that’s going to get him into a shitload of trouble.
He’s falling in love with her.
I’m fucking sure of it.
“I’m not willing to back off,” I say slowly, admitting to my brother something that’s been brewing in my head for a while now. “Just because he feels whatever he feels for her. Grace is her own person who can make her own choices. And if it’s Hale, so be it. If it’s not Hale, then it’s still our job to step in and make sure she doesn’t feel like a fucking prisoner.”
Because that isn’t how it is.
Grace is a guest in our house, whether she realizes it or not. Sure, maybe in Damian’s book she’s still a prisoner, but not to me. It’s an honor to have her with us, and believe me, if she were a prisoner, she’d be treated a whole fuck of a lot differently. Our prisoners usually don’t get a guest suite with a king-sized bed and free access to anywhere they want to go in the house.
“Hale may be in command when it comes to anything syndicate related, but Grace isn’t the syndicate.” It sounds like direct defiance, but it’s the truth, and even Hale knows it. “If he gets pissed about the fact that we’re not willing to back down, then fuck him. He doesn’t get to decide how we feel about Grace, or how she feels about any of us.”
Zaid doesn’t say anything in response, and we fall into a brooding silence on the rest of the drive home, each contemplating our own shit.
When we get home and pull into the garage, I glance at Zaid as he pulls the key from the ignition. “Go on in. I’ll head inside in a little bit. I just need to… get my head on straight.”
He grunts in acknowledgement of my words, punching my shoulder lightly before sliding out and slamming his door shut behind him. I open my own door but don’t get out of the car right away. Instead, I just stare at the dash, trying to untangle the knot of emotions in my chest.
It’s up to Grace to decide how she feels about us.
The words I said to my brother flash through my head again, and I nod absently. It is up to Grace. Ciro, Hale, Zaid, and I can spend hours fighting over her if we want, but the truth is, none of that will mean shit if she hasn’t chosen any of us.
Because we can’t force her to care about us.
All we can do is try to earn her trust. To show her, in every way we possibly can, that things can be different between us. That the violence and chaos that brought us together don’t have to define our relationship going forward.
With a flare of determination, I get out of the car, slamming the door behind me. Why wait? Why should I waste another hour, another minute, another day, waiting for her to come around on her own? I may not be able to push along the process of weeding out the traitor any quicker, but I’m going to do my best to make sure Grace doesn’t feel like a fucking prisoner any longer.
I’m still not sure if it’s that simple, but why shouldn’t I try?
My mind is still churning with thoughts as I head to the kitchen. Zaid and I do most of the cooking around here, since we actually enjoy it and Hale and Ciro don’t. Lately, our meals have been pretty simple since we’ve got so much other shit on our plate, but I decide that tonight, I’ll make something special. Something Grace loves.
As I’m setting out what I need for dinner, I hear footsteps behind me.
Soft. Almost tentative.
The sweet scent of jasmine tickles my nostrils, and I know without turning around that it’s Grace.
I don’t say anything as I glance over my shoulder. Her expression shutters as our gazes meet, her footsteps stalling as she braces herself against the counter. When she glances back at the door as if she’s about to leave, I take three steps toward her.
No. Not tonight.
For one evening, I want to pretend like she’s ours, like she believes that she’s ours.
Because she does belong here, whether she’s come to terms with it or not.
11
Grace
